‘Okay, so bear with me.’ Llinos lifts up a full-length black gown from the pile. The material is a floaty chiffon with a V-neckline. ‘Try this one. I’ve got an idea.’

Knowing she won’t take no for an answer, I slip it on and stand in front of her.

‘So here’s what I’m thinking.’ She crouches down, picking up a handful of fabric. ‘We do the bottom like last time – take out a panel and have leather fighting shorts underneath. It can be your signature.’

‘And on top?’

‘And on top, we make this a smidgen lower.’ She gestures to the neckline. ‘But the sleeves will be the real statement. We’ll open them up with a slit down from the shoulder, and then I’ll see if I can find some type of wire to hold them open.’

‘Hold them open?’ I repeat dubiously.

‘Yeah, kinda like bat wings.’

‘Bat wings?’ I’ve been reduced to parroting things back to her. It doesn’t sound like the type of thing I’d normally wear.

‘Trust me, you will look phenomenal.’ Llinos reads my reticence and continues, ‘Like a serious badass. Which is exactly how you want everyone to see you, right?’

I can tell from her eyes that she’s desperate to do this, and considering how good a job she did before, I’d hardly feel right saying no. Besides, if cutting up all my gowns brings her joy, then I’m not going to stop her.

‘Fine,’ I groan, though a smile curls my lips. ‘Do your thing.’

It’s late by the time Llinos leaves, and despite the long day, sleep doesn’t come. My body obviously feels like it’s rested enough.

In addition, something’s been weighing on my mind since I first got here, and it feels like it’s time I do something about it. So, after getting up and dressed, I make my way to the kitchens.

Just as I hoped, Leilah is still there, wiping down the last of the kitchen sides. She doesn’t bother looking up as I enter.

‘It’s late,’ she says bluntly. ‘We’re not serving food now.’

‘I know,’ I say quickly.

As she lifts her head, her eyes sweep me up and down and then soften a little. ‘Looks like you could do with more.’

‘I’m not here for me,’ I respond. ‘And I don’t need food. Not like they do.’

Her brow furrows.

‘People in the slums are starving,’ I explain. ‘Really starving. There are children barely surviving on a meal a day. Not even that sometimes. And meanwhile, up here, we have these feasts where half the food isn’t even eaten. There’s so much waste. So I was wondering – hoping – if we could somehow arrange for the leftovers to be taken to the slums?’

‘You want to send them half-chewed chicken legs and smears of mashed potato?’ She arches an eyebrow.

‘Yes. Anything and everything you have left over. Please.’

A soft sigh escapes her lips. ‘I don’t have the means nor the time to arrange a carriage to carry it down.’

‘If you can just contact a friend of mine in the slums, he’ll see it done. He’ll arrange it all.’ Ruben would help organise it. I know he would. And after all the deaths of the first trial, it would be great to have something actually worth celebrating, like starving people getting the food they deserve.

Leilah presses her lips together. ‘I’ll need to get someone’s authority to do so. Leave it with me.’

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

I make my way back to my room, but I still feel edgy. Rather than poring over the books from the library, the way I’ve done most nights, I find myself staring at the box the dagger came in, wondering if there’s a clue in it. Something that will reveal more about its origin. If I can just find a symbol, then maybe I could give that to Caroline to look into. After all, it would be great if I felt comfortable enough to use it in a trial at some point, without fearing what it would do.

The box is ornately patterned with swirls and wooden inlays, but there’s nothing discernible in the way of symbols or letters that I can make out. It just looks like a very pretty box.

Just as I’m about to give up, I hear the creaking of metal steps. It must be gone midnight.

My heart stutters. Has Jonas come to see if I’m up for company? He’s never come up here this late before, but I can’t imagine who else it would be. I stand and walk towards the door, only to stop as I hear voices. Quiet voices that don’t want to be heard.

‘Push it harder.’

‘I’m pushing it as hard as I can.’

Zara and Mattieu, the Rowell fire wielder. I’m sure it is. There’s only one reason they’d come here this late at night, and it’s not because they want to snuggle.

As my throat dries I think of the ward Jonas placed on my door. I sure as hell hope he’s as good at spell work as he thinks he is.

‘Let me have a go,’ another voice says.

How many Rowell Rettlings has she brought with her? There are five of them left. Surely, among a group of them, one of them will have enough power to undo the ward.

Nausea sweeps through me as I struggle to keep my mind straight. I’m an idiot. That’s the only thought that forms, and it’s far from helpful. Why didn’t I take Jonas’s advice? Why didn’t I sleep in the dorm with the others? Why the hell did I think Zara would let me be or only attack me in the trials?

It doesn’t matter that her powers have been weakened by the jötnar. If it’s five against one – or even three against one – I’m as good as dead.

‘Screw this,’ Zara snarls after a minute. ‘Just burn the place down.’

‘You want me to set fire to her door?’ Mattieu says, a shade incredulously. Hope flares. Maybe he won’t do it.

Still, I can’t rely on that. My hands are trembling as I turn in a circle, desperately searching for a way out. There’re three windows, but none of them are large enough for me to fit through, and there’s running water in the bathroom, but save for a solitary cup, nothing for me to carry it with. Not in the volume I’d need if fire really is in the cards.

‘Yes, I want you to set fire to her fucking door,’ Zara snaps. ‘If I can’t kill her with my bare hands, she can choke to death on smoke. Do it. Now.’

All I need is for Mattieu to have an ounce of decency in him and I’ll be okay.

‘I don’t have much power after today,’ he says weakly.

‘You’ve got enough for a fucking spark, don’t you?’ Zara snarls.

Gods, I hope he doesn’t. My breaths are ragged. So much in this room is wood. And it’s dry wood, the residual magic having ensured that not an ounce of moisture or damp gets in. The place will go up like a tinderbox. If he’s just as drained as Zara is, then maybe – maybe – there’s hope. The thought’s barely finished forming when the first tendrils of smoke billow from beneath the door. A heartbeat later, the flames take hold.

Fuck. I won’t let myself die here. I won’t. I didn’t survive fucking giants to die at the hands of a bully who doesn’t even have the patience to kill me herself.

‘You can survive this, Rose. Think!’

Even in the cold, fires in the slums were common. The homes were so densely packed that once one caught light, there was no chance of stopping it. But I’m not worried about keeping my home. I just want to get out of here alive.

And that I can do.

As I search around for a solution, my eyes land on the corner of the room and my heart skips a beat. I thought I had more than enough of Jonas’s stupid, overprotective nature. Now I realise it could be the thing to save me.

The sand bucket is in the same place I placed it all those days ago. It might not be enough to put the entire fire out, but it’s enough to make a dent, and that’s a lot better than nothing. I just need to make sure I can get outside.

The plan is still forming as I yank the bedsheet from the bed and throw it into the shower, blasting it with cold water. I leave it there long enough to grab my knife and sheath it in the top of my shorts, and I grab the satchel from the hiding place between the tiles. That’s all the time I’m giving myself.